21. Bat #2
“Oi, Chaz!” Brad’s voice boomed through the door. “Feeling better? I’m starving!”
What an absolute tosser. Of course he expected Charlie to be the one cooking every bloody night, despite the fact that Charlie was recovering from being attacked by a not?witch.
“There’s leftovers in the fridge!” Charlie snapped back. “I’m still on my sick leave.”
Muffled grumbling filtered through the door—something about Gerald not offering proper sick leave benefits.
Charlie’s stomach chose that exact moment to grumble loudly, the sound cutting through Brad’s muffled complaints from the corridor.
“You’re hungry,” I said.
“There’s still more of those crisps,” he said, reaching towards me as if I were about to send him away to go and eat something proper.
Which I totally was.
“Go eat those leftovers,” I ordered.
“So bossy.” Pink bloomed across Charlie’s cheeks, but his eyes gleamed with something that made my ectoplasm fizz.
He pressed a kiss to each of my cheeks—soft, warm touches that sent pleasant tingles through my ghostly form. Then I watched him get dressed in normal clothes for once: faded jeans and a baggy jumper that made him look younger than that silly ExorSquad get-up did.
The moment he left the room, a sharp pang shot through my dead heart.
I chided myself immediately. Charlie needed to be allowed a twenty-minute break from me. Or fifteen minutes, at least. The poor bloke had been through enough without me clinging to him like some lovesick limpet.
Ignoring the voice in my head that wondered what it would do to me when Charlie drove away soon, never to be seen again, I floated off to check in with the others.
The library first—I wanted to talk to Lady Grimthorne after her weird and, quite frankly, rude behaviour earlier. But she wasn’t there, though she had been recently—Outlander book one had been placed on the table with a pressed flower for a bookmark.
Huh. Was she hiding from me?
“Molly?” I called out.
“In the piano room,” came her faint voice.
I drifted through the walls, entering the elegant room with its mahogany furniture and tall windows. The grand piano sat closed, its polished surface reflecting the light from the sconce lamps. Outside the windows, darkness had fallen.
Three ghosts occupied the space. Vivian and Molly hunched over our new chess set on a small table between two armchairs, whilst Edmund perched on the piano bench, watching the game with mild interest. He gave me a slight nod.
Poor bastard had shot himself in the library back in 1910—and still wore the Edwardian suit he’d died in.
It appeared as if Vivian was wiping the floor with Molly.
“Master Bartholomew,” Molly said, glancing up with a smile. “How lovely to see you.”
Vivian moved her queen with melodramatic flair, then winked at me. “Well, look who we have here. I’m surprised to see you at all, actually.”
“Why?”
“Well, if I was bedding that tasty young man, I wouldn’t be leaving his chamber to watch a chess game.”
“Vivian!” Molly gasped, scandalised, whilst a mortified expression appeared on Edmund’s face.
“Please don’t tell me you lot were spying on us,” I groaned.
Vivian only smiled as she captured Molly’s bishop with a flourish.
“Listen, though, Bartholomew. Those ghost hunters aren’t to be trusted,” Molly said quietly, studying the board with a frown. “Not to that level. Even if he did buy us all these lovely gifts, that Charlie might drive a stake through your heart when you least expect it.”
“I’m not a vampire, Mol. And Charlie’s helping me—trying to solve the mystery of my death, in fact.”
Vivian gave a dramatic, theatrical gasp, one hand flying to her chest.
I filled them in on recent events—the witch’s grave, Margery’s fury, and her cryptic words about other victims of my killer.
“I ran away with Thomas,” Molly said apologetically. “He dragged me off. Sorry for disappearing on you.”
“It’s alright,” I said. “But anyway, Margery Darke strongly implied lots of the residents here were killed by her murderer. Including me.”
“Well, the multiple Harvey Wallbangers were my downfall,” Vivian mused, moving another piece. “Cocktails, heels, and open windows are a killer combination.”
Molly shuddered. “And I wasn’t killed by whatever’s down there. Catherine Hartwell pushed me down the servants’ stairs because the master looked at me too long during dinner service. Simple jealousy.”
Vivian moved her remaining rook across the board with a decisive click. “Checkmate, darling.”
Molly stared at the pieces in dismay, her phantom shoulders slumping.
But Vivian didn’t look triumphant. Instead, her perfectly painted crimson lips pressed into a thin line, her expression turning distant. Thoughtful. Like she was deeply pondering character motivations in some melodrama script.
“What?” Molly asked.
Vivian’s gaze swept across all of us, lingering on each ghost in turn. When she spoke, her voice had lost its playful edge entirely.
“Listen. Just because Catherine pushed you, doesn’t mean she wasn’t influenced by it.
Think about it—what if the thing in the basement has been manipulating people for centuries?
Whispering in their ears, feeding their darkest impulses?
” Vivian rose from her chair, pacing like she was performing a monologue for the West End.
“What if it’s been orchestrating every violent death in this house?
Playing puppet master to jealous maids and scorned lovers?
What if it doesn’t have to kill you itself… what if it makes people kill?”
“Stop,” Molly whispered, her bloodstained cloth trembling. “Please stop.”
We all paused, a collective shiver running through the room at the mere thought of what lurked below us.
Edmund cleared his throat delicately. “If I may,” he said in a reedy voice, “I believe there might be some merit to that theory.”
All heads turned to look at him.
Edmund rarely spoke—even amongst ghosts, he was quiet. When he did offer his thoughts, we listened. Years and years of sharing this manor had taught us that much.
“I remember pulling the trigger,” he said, his voice a mere whisper.
“I remember the weight of the pistol in my hand, the cold metal against my temple. I remember thinking it was the only way.” He paused, staring down at his pale hands.
“But I’ve never understood why I shot myself.
Not once in all this time. I had everything—a loving wife, healthy children, a thriving estate.
Yet something drove me to that library, to that gun cabinet, to… ” He gestured vaguely at his head.
Another collective shudder trilled through the room.
“Though… when exactly was the basement sealed?” I asked.
Molly shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “For as long as I can remember.”
“So—”
A sound from the doorway—the soft rustle of fabric against wood. I spun around just in time to catch a flash of movement, the distinctive blue silk of Lady Grimthorne’s gown disappearing around the corner.
She’d been listening at the door.
The four of us caught each other’s eyes.
Strange.
Very, very strange.
The pieces of this puzzle were forming a picture I didn’t want to see. Whatever was down there might have been murdering and manipulating people for centuries, driving them to violence, to madness, to death. And Lady Grimthorne knew more about it than she was letting on.
The manor suddenly felt smaller, oppressive, as if the walls themselves were closing in. Even the familiar comfort of the piano room couldn’t shake the creeping dread that was settling over me like a shroud.
But Charlie had enjoyed at least a twelve-minute break from me now, so it was time for me to go haunt him again.
What a shame.